Hold On
by Eternal Soldier
Summary: When Reid is captured and left for dead by an UnSub, he didn't want the team to find him so broken. But they're what helps him hold on. Drabble. Reid/Morgan preslash.


_A/N: Firstly, I apologise for the severely long delay on my two other stories. I am battling some severe writer's block, and can't really think of what to write. But I want to live you guys with something, so here's this little drabble. I hope you enjoy!_

_Warning: Very slight Reid/Morgan pre-slash._

* * *

**Hold On**

* * *

He was floating. He didn't even really feel connected to his body anymore. He could still feel the pain- yes, the unbelievable, mind-numbing pain- but he felt detached from it, like it was happening to someone else. He didn't feel like he was really there anymore.

He'd tried to be strong. Really, he had. Every beating, every time the knife sliced across his skin, he'd managed to remain silent. But the moment the knife had plunged deep into his chest, he'd screamed louder than he ever had before. He had never felt pain like that before; it was unimaginable. It didn't matter whether the team found him now; as soon as he'd felt that pain, Spencer Reid knew he was going to die.

He had held out hope that the team would find him in time, that they would rescue him, but that hope was no more. Sure, they would find him- they were too good not to- but he would either already be dead or be too far gone to be saved. He almost didn't want them to find him any more; he didn't want them to see him like this, so weak and broken. Their distress and fear would hurt him even more than the knife.

His eyelids slowly began to drift shut as he thought of the team. He didn't have the strength to stay awake anymore. All he could see was the blood. _His _blood. So much…

And now he was delirious. He had to be. Those footsteps weren't real. Those voices, yelling his name, weren't real. They couldn't be. He closed his eyes against the visions he knew would come. But still, he wouldn't let himself relax, wouldn't let himself drift. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he didn't just not want to die. He was _afraid_ to die. He was afraid of what was waiting for him on the other side, whether there was an afterlife or just _nothing_. But even more than that, he was afraid of having to leave everything and everyone he'd ever loved. His mother. His team…

His team. In his pain and his half-conscious state, he hadn't been able to figure out who was calling his name. But now he realised. It was his team. Hotch, Rossi, Prentiss, JJ… Morgan. Morgan, the one who hadn't stopped calling Reid's name, the one who's anguish at finding Reid bloody and near death sounded so much worse than anybody else's. Morgan…

Reid's mind was a fog. He knew the voices around him- Morgan's, the teams'- were saying things other than his name, but he couldn't make out _what_ they were saying. He strained his ears, trying to make it out, but he couldn't. He knew they wanted him to wake up, to move, to give some sign other than his very slowly moving chest that he was still alive, but he couldn't. He tried to move, to lift his arm, but his body felt like lead. He just could not move.

Finally, though, the voices broke through the fog, and Reid could make out what Morgan was saying. "Please wake up, please, please, _please_ wake up. We can't live without you. _I _can't live without you. Please come back to me, Spencer, _please_."

_Spencer_. Morgan called him _Spencer_. Morgan never used his first name. Not once. To be using it now… Morgan must've been desperate. He really, really wanted Reid to live. More than Reid could ever have anticipated.

In that moment, Reid made a decision. He would not let go. He would fight. He would hold on, and he would live. Because he wanted to, and because Morgan wanted him to.

"Don't let me go, Derek…" Reid choked out. And Morgan, jumping at the sound of Reid's voice, didn't.

* * *

_A/N: I'm not really sure where this drabble came from, but I really hope you enjoyed it! Reviews would be very much loved! :)_


End file.
